


BlackHissBeast

by Broba



Category: Blackadder, Homestuck
Genre: British Comedy, Comedy, Crossover, Elizabethan, Fluff and Crack, Gen, This Crossover Makes Absolutely No Sense, blackadder - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broba/pseuds/Broba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt! Someone actually prompted a crossover between HS\Blackadder. And, as we all know, I am physically unable to resist a crossover involving British TV.</p>
<p>However will the cunning and devious Lord BlackHissBeast escape yet another predicament? I expect it will involve a plan. Possibly a plan of the most cunning variety...</p>
            </blockquote>





	BlackHissBeast

 

Across the hills and dales of Troll England, wherever men of valour would meed to exchange stories, swap boasts, knock heads and generally make complete arses of themselves, one name would be forever upon the lips of the bold and valorous. Wherever a flashing blade were drawn in honourable combat, wherever the virtue of a maid were in peril or the just were downtrodden he would be there. With gracious wit he would litter ballrooms and dining-tables with apposite bon-mots, wherever the great and the good gathered to exchange the ideas and great philosophies of the day it was to his speeches and letters that men would turn for both example and epistolary delight. This tale is not about that man.  
  
In fact it would be better to entirely forget that anything approaching honour and decency before reading on, for this tale is about Karkat, Lord BlackHissBeast, the most scurrilous, more weaselling, most execrable and cowardly blackguard in all of Troll England.  
  
Our tale in fact begins in the house of that cur, wherein a celebration most noisome and uncomely was shaking the dust from the rafters and aggravating the dormice to a flurry of dismay.  
“Hurrah!” Shouted Lord McAra, raising yet another foaming tankard of ale, “Here's to BlackHissBeast, the best man at dice since Lord Boxhead the Cubical!”  
“Hurray!” Tavrick piped from his corner, where he was peeling a turnip.  
“Please,” smirked Karkat, Lord BlackHissBeast, for it was he, “you are too kind, I merely had good fortune at the gaming table.”  
“And!” McAra continued after a hearty swig, “let's not forget, the only man in Troll England to ever get away with the old loaded-dice-in-the-sleeve trick for ten years!”  
“Now now,” BlackHissBeast smirked, “nothing was ever proven. Oh that reminds me, Tavrick!”  
“Yes, my lord!”  
“Have my special lucky gambling jerkin laundered, there's a good man.”  
“Yes, my lord!”  
BlackHissBeast shrugged off the gaudy and fanciful jerkin overcoat he had been wearing and casually tossed it toward Tavrick, where it landed with the sound of lots of very small cube-shaped items rolling around in secret pockets.  
“And!” McAra continued merrily, “the only man in Troll England-”  
“Come come,” BlackHissBeast smirked a smile full of sneering smugness, “you are too, too generous, I am about to blush.”  
“The only man-”  
“I am a humble fellow after all,”  
“Only man-”  
“The recipient of good fortune, nothing more, but do go on I'm enjoying this.”  
“The only! Only man!” McAra was quite sozzled, and paused to spill a little ale down his front, messily, “who would not only win a thousand pounds in one game of dice,”  
“I was rather spectacular, I admit it,”  
“But! But! Not only that! But who would win a thousand pounds off Friar Squealy,”  
“Vile little runt that he is,”  
“Friar Squealy, the nephew of the dreaded Bishop of Cocke, who I do believe is known in some circles as Old Knee Smasher.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“And I think, I'm pretty, I'm pretty, heh heh, I'm pretty sure I've heard him called Bishop Bollock Basher, The Groin Grinding Gargantuan.”  
“One moment, ah-”  
“They say he once fed one poor chap his own knuckles. Pickled with herring, so they say.”  
“Ah,”  
“They say he once ripped the arm off an orphan and slapped another one to death with the flappy end.”  
“Um. Might I stop you right there-”  
“I heard,” Tavrick piped up again, thoughtfully, “that the Bishop once caught someone sneezing in church during a sermon, and was so angry he made them wait outside.”  
  
They looked at Tavrick, waiting patiently. BlackHissBeast sighed.  
“You're about to say that the sermon was happening aboard a boat in shark infested waters, or something similarly ridiculous aren't you.”  
“Nah,” Tavrick examined his turnip, “mind you, after the sermon was over, the Bishop did stab him forty-seven times with a rusty crozier.”  
“Oh, God.” BlackHissBeast laid his head in his hands.  
“Now, now, old chum! Cheer up! After all,” McAra hiccuped, “what are the chances that Friar Squealy will mention to his favourite uncle in all the world that you completely and utterly took him for a fool, gambled him into bankruptcy, and then started reciting an incredibly rude little song   insulting his entire family. In front of fifteen nuns.”  
“Oh God!”  
“Cheer up my lord!” Tavrick beamed, “you're forgetting the bright side.”  
“What's that Tavrick?” BlackHissBeast looked up wearily.  
“The incredibly rude little song is really popular, half of Troll London is singing it!”  
“OH GOD!”  
  
BlackHissBeast paced up and down the room, frantically muttering to himself and panicking, while McAra snored happily in an alcoholic haze.  
“I'm going to die,” he moaned, “and the worst part is- I'm going to die!”  
Tavrick stood up to attention and tapped him on the shoulder proudly, beaming with the look of a man who knows, deep in his heart, that his time has truly come at last.  
“My lord, you can forget your problems!”  
“And why is that, Tavrick?”  
“Because,” said Tavrick, “I have a cunning plan.”  
“Oh God.”  
“It's simple my lord.”  
“Why do I find myself in paroxysms of shocked amazement to hear that, I wonder.”  
“The Bishop of Cocke is going to come looking for you, right?”  
“Yes, Tavrick.”  
“And when he finds you, he's going to want to do all sorts of brutal, horrible, torturous things to you, right?”  
“Yes, Tavrick, quite brutal.”  
“Well then, simple! All we do, is we take an enormous turnip-”  
“Tavrick.”  
“Yes, my lord,”  
“This cunning plan of yours,”  
“Yes, my lord?”  
“Does it, perchance, involve for instance carving an effigy of me. Out of a bafflingly large turnip, and hoping that the Bishop of Cocke doesn't notice the ruse?”  
“Well...”  
“Tavrick.”  
“We could find a potato-”  
“Tavrick, has it occurred to you that in all the years of your service to me you have not once managed to formulate anything remotely approximating a plan, cunning or otherwise? In fact I would go on to say that you wouldn't know a cunning plan if it broke into your room at night, crawled under your foetid little blanket for a night of passionate love-making, returned in nine months time with a bundle under one arm that looks suspiciously like you, and introduced you to little Cunning Junior?”  
“Um,” he thought about that, “no, my lord.”  
“Right! Looks like I'm going to have to get myself out of this one, as per bloody usual!”  
  
That very afternoon found that same most unworthy BlackHissBeast in the court of Queen Elizafef, already scheming and plotting a way to escape the surely oncoming vengeance of the dreaded Bishop of Cocke, of whom it is said that he fed his own mother to a pack of rabid, ravenous dogs just so that they would stop barking all night in his garden. BlackHissBeast sidled along the finely tiled and copiously decorated corridor leading to the throne room, and Lord McAra with him kept pace, occasionally groaning and holding a hand to his head for he had developed a quite enormous headache for no reason at all that he could fathom.  
“Right,” said BlackHissBeast when they were near the doors, “now here's the plan. I'll go in there and mention how shocked I am that someone who apparently looks like me in every minute detail has been wandering around defrauding friars, and then I want you to mention how well known it is that I really really like the church. Got it?”  
“Uh, what?”  
“Concentrate! This is important! We're here to convince the Queen that I am a lovely, God-fearing church loving devout, understand?”  
“Oh pish, BlackHissBeast, everyone knows that you despise the church and you have a funny turn every time you get too near a bible!”  
“Yes, McAra, that's why we're going to try very hard, and lie just as much as we can, in order to convince the Queen that I'm the most boringly holy, sickeningly moral person this side of Troll Watford. Once I have the Queen thinking I'm the number one fan of all things churchy even the Bishop won't be able to touch me! Do you think you can manage to hold that idea in your inexplicably tiny mind? I realise this might mean forgetting some of the other things you normally keep in there like remembering how to breathe but it's a risk I'm willing to take!”  
“Right. Got it!”  
“Remember! I'm mister churchy-pants, the biggest chum of bishops since whoever opened up the first weird hat and stick-with-a-bendy-bit shop!”  
“No problem, BlackHissBeast. You can trust me!”  
“I better be able to, because otherwise, if the Bishop of Cocke wants to rip my arm off he'll have to extract it from your chitinous wind passage first and pry my fingers from around your respiratory sponge-sacks!”  
“Got it.”  
“I will literally punch your internal organs.”  
“Understood.”  
BlackHissBeast smirked, “right. This time tomorrow, my problems will all be over! Come on.”  
  
They entered the great throne room of Queen Elizafef, where the monarch sat in repose on her great gilded throne, ensconsed in her skirts, girldes, silks and pearls. She looked up with a happy squeal and clapped her little hands.  
“Karkat! Oh you won't believe what I heard today!”  
“Quite. If I may, your majesty, I would like to talk to you about-”  
“It's the most amazingly vulgar little song, would you like to hear it?”  
The Lord Chamberlain oozed out of his customary hiding place behind the throne and smirked at BlackHissBeast.  
“Yes, BlackHissBeast, uw-would you like to hear it?”  
“Ah, perhaps another time, your Majesty, um,”  
“Oh come, BlackHissBeast,” The Lord Chamberlain could barely contain his horrible glee, “apparently it's all the rage. If only uw-we knew-w who the author uw-was...”  
  
BlackHissBeast gave him a withering look, and the Chamberlain merely looked at him with blank innocence, adjusting his little eyeglasses with the thick mahogany frames.  
“Rah!” McAra perked up, “that sounds like a jolly wheeze, your Majesty, I love a good sing-song!”  
BlackHissBeast grabbed McAra's arm and pulled him roughly to the side, in order to monologue privately in his ear.  
“Shut up you idiot! Stick to what I told you to say!”  
“Ah! Right! Yes! Sorry about that!”  
“Majesty!” BlackHissBeast turned with an oleaginous smile, “I wonder if I have mentioned recently how much I really really like the church-”  
“Nya-ah-ah-ah,” remarked the Chamberlain sagely, “yes, sad days indeed for the mother church.”  
“I'm not quite sure I follow, milord,” BlackHissBeast growled.  
“It seems, your Majesty, that some uw-wicked fellow-w only a day hence managed, through some black uw-witchcraft no doubt, to purloin one thousand pounds from a certain friar, money uw-which uw-was intended to beautify the cathedral at Troll Uw-Westminster.”  
The Queen groaned and rolled her eyes.  
“Oh poo. You know what that means, don't you? Any day now the whole palace will be simply crawling with priests and bishops and archbishops looking for some money. You know how I get when people are always asking me for things,” her expression darkened slightly, “I get grumpy.”  
“A terrible shame,” BlackHissBeast oozed, “if only there was something that could be done. However as I was saying-”  
“Ah!” McAra jerked upright as a thought came to him, which was a novel experience, “you've got that thousand pounds, BlackHissBeast!”  
The Chamberlain raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, “BlackHissBeast? Is this true?”  
“Ah-”  
“Yes, and you know,” McAra was now in full gust, “BlackHissBeast was only just saying how much he loves the church! Mister Churchy-Pants, we call him!”  
“Ah!”  
Queen Elizafef clapped happily, “Oh BlackHissBeast, would you be an absolute darling and see to it? I'd be ever so grateful if you could donate just a tiny little bit of cash...”  
“Um,”  
“I'd be so grateful I would definitely not even dream of chopping off your head!”  
“Uh- I suppose... so?”  
McAra was the first to congratulate him. “Rah! Well done, BlackHissBeast, you know it's not true what they say about you being the schemingest rotter in all of Troll London, but here you are donating a thousand pounds to the church at the same exact time that one thousand pounds exactly goes missing!”  
“Indeed, BlackHissBeast,” the Chamberlain practically purred, “the Lord moveth in mysterious uw-ways.”


End file.
